I can't be your friendI can't be your friend.I can't be your friend1 month ago in Free Verse More Like This
No, I can't.
I've tried many times.
I've tried different ways
And I can't live with the idea of being your friend...
Just your friend.
I know I can't force your love.
I know it makes no sense.
I dreamed of us, you know?
Yes, I thougt it could happen.
I used to see you in my window even if you were not there.
I believed in each smile painted on your face.
I remember the times you changed your hair.
I remember my shoulder being your bed,
My chest, your pillow.
Where will I go?
Who will be like you?
I'm tired of hearing that I will find the right girl.
I thought she was you.
Why to search for somebody to replace my princess?
I always wanted a kiss,
At least just one
Or something more than "sweetheart".
Your hugs were my dreamland,
Your arms around me, your smell, the texture of your clothes...
You always loved those ones different than me.
I'm just a good heart, support, an advice,
Your clown, your "aww".
I wish I couldn't feel this
Am I that ugly? Am I not j
Why Women Turn To FeminismBecause you do not love usWhy Women Turn To Feminism7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as we want to love ourselves.
Because of the scarlet letters
you embroider on our chests
as we sleep on yours.
Because you pull the pigtails from puberty
and squeeze mothers and prostitutes
from the girls we really are.
Because Disney fooled us:
we awoke, sweet-sixteen, embittered
with no kiss, no carriage, no prince.
Because the heroines of our youth taught us
the plastic passivity of our sex.
Because we couldn't be factory-made beauty too.
Because we have spent too long courting tears
and making life-rafts of our pillows.
Because we want the power to reject
our presence, our affection - even our indifference
and not feel our hearts unbeating because of this.
Because, in feminism, we find the fairy Godmother
we were always denied by being real - but constructed.
The Daily Sentence ProjectShe shifts her thighs to the same anglesThe Daily Sentence Project2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where tectonic plates exchange glances.
The infant in her arms coos in haiku,
the phone crouching on her shoulder
barking in blank verse and bank terms;
where has the affection been displaced?
Perhaps the both of them are three full-
time jobs past romance and two cases
of chickenpox past the seven-year-itch
to be able to tell that dishwater softens
and oatmeal baths becalm their hands.
The kitchen tile is a haphazardous haven
for cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,Titles Don't Belong in the First Line2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and poetry is not made of end rhymes.
The ventilated fluorescence and I
flicker at the incongruence
and I want to tell her
sometimes east is left
on the map
if you hold it right.
interim requieminterim requiem4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gates open at 3 a m to the beach of failures
countless pebbles of all shapes sizes colours
traceless years of marginalisation
untried adventures, unseen lands, untraveled roads, unexplored cities, uncharted rivers
unspoken words, unreturned gestures, unshaken hands, unrequited infatuations
unwarranted rebukes, unresolved guilt, unavailability of confidantes
a life half-lived
personal shortcomings, social conditioning, duty obligation loyalty
improbable aims, conspiracy of times, wheels within wheels, twisted perspectives
throw darts to question why
never to hit the bulls eye
classclass4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
at a far remove
sculpted face, glowing skin, resplendent smile
elegant posture, fine clothes
in lush quiet ambience
of a spacious house
at a far remove
early recognition bestowed without much struggle
serendipity of success
likely inner peace
jostling through the crowds
sweating it out
if only to make a voice heard
in the deafening din around
then to be drowned in anonymity
join the majority
at a near remove
His Hearse, Her HymnHimHis Hearse, Her Hymn2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You asked me why I don't believe in honesty
with henna-hands undressing our hips.
I told you—
—told you that a confession is an embalming:
the truth has died but hasn't been laid to rest.
You ask why I don't believe in honesty.
It is because honesty makes for better liars
and homeless poets.
liars have all the beautiful words.
the sunsets exploding within their throats
indicative of someone who’s entertained
too many dusty nightmares;
the truth is,
you were not cut out for this;
you’ve the heart of a child and
the eyes of the dis-eased—
—but I would love your every
vulnerability if you let me into
the brittle hollows of your bones.
denial is the best policydenial is the best policy4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
deal only with the external reality
deny the internal one
abdicate the internal-implied responsibilities
forsake its decision-making
if unresolved issues are never going to be resolved, let them bloody pester
though they have a tendency to spread their venomous tentacles to the body
denial has to work.
real wallsreal walls4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
withdraw from the delusional
they are self-made and deserve the riches
they are victims of the system
they are so special that it takes substance abuse to finish them
their country is god's gift to humanity
their religion is the best
their religion justifies violence
withdraw from the illusional
work is its own reward
body is a temple
love means sacrifice
relationships are sacred
no wonder so many are islands,
hermits and recluse
they didn't create the walls around them
the make-believers did
real walls out of false beliefs
Next to youNext to you there is no poem that describes your lips.Next to you3 weeks ago in Free Verse More Like This
Next to you my poor verses dance out of rhythm.
Next to you my love seems like a mountain
And old mountain that lost its green,
A green that grew over your breasts, over your neck
While my kisses destroyed the sound of the night
When the moon exploded making me cry
And your voice allowed me to love, allowed me to find
Your soul through my hands,
Your heart, your mind, my faith.
Oh, beautiful queen that sings for this owl,
Console my dreams, my mouth, my face,
Make me a new body with your strokes,
Comb my hair slowly feeding my desire,
Feeding my hope, giving me a sense...
A sense to live.
Collect my memories in a glass made in gold
And drink my stories, stories of a love,
A love I never wrote,
A love that existed only in my bed,
Only as a lie, only in my head.
An incomplete heart, that's what I am.
A bitter sweet fruit tasted for many
But never for you.
And you know you're my life.
But you act like a slut
A Shoe TaleA Shoe Tale2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Mister Lacey and miss Ribbon were a pair of red shiny shoes living in a boxful of dreams, on cloud-coated linens. One May day, a little girl found them sleeping next to each other, and she loved them so much that she took them out for an afternoon walk, sometimes tituppy, sometimes gingerly, on the sundressed alleys. Mister Lacey and miss Ribbon were cheerful, as they had never breathed such a crisp air before, and the chill of those spring days, after a good sturdy rain, was daintly tickling their soles, growing goosebumps on their skin.
The little girl was bursting with fidgetness. When she stopped to bathe in a tiny oasis, she briskly took off her shoes and left them on the dewy grass. Mister Lacey and miss Ribbon were slightly afraid, as gloomy spiders and frowning mosquitoes were tamelessly rumbling around them. They cuddled tightly, to make the fear go away, like salt in a desert storm. The fear started to vanish itself, as the two realized that they were not alone. They were a p
What Soft DreamsWhat soft dreams we lay -What Soft Dreams3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
What soft dreams, like infants put to rest -
Frightfully bare, and compromised,
Our kisses on their breasts.
We close our eyes and trust them safe,
Kept 'til break of dawn -
Forgetting that the night is fickle,
And dutifully, as long -
It safeguards some,
Moved by neither coin nor threat
Nor anguished mother's cry.
Mis diarios del fin del Mundo parte 1Mis diarios del fin del Mundo parte 12 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Recuerdo el fin del mundo…
era un viernes."
- 00:02 -
"No es lo que dicen, sino lo que hacen es lo que más me preocupa
(…) porque aún actúan como si todo estuviera igual que antes."
"Después de los zombies y de los alienígenas,
las catástrofes naturales no estuvieron nada mal,
aunque mi madre me riñó por no meter la ropa."
- 08:50 -
"Extraño el Internet"
- 07/01 -
Hoy unos niños encontraron un libro,
me preguntaron donde iban las baterías
Los champiñones asados son nutrivos y deliciosos,
si puedes atraparlos."
"La fosa radiactiva es un bonito lugar para ir a dar una vuelta tomados de la mano,
solos tú y yo."
"Extraño los dulces de abuela,
ya casi no queda gente vieja por aquí."
- 09/29 -
Todos los domingos por las mañanas,
un señor muy viejo con voz de niño nos reúne a todos en familia para darnos regalos, concursar por ellos,
y nos canta canciones sobre la alegría de ser niño.
I Prayed For RainDear God,I Prayed For Rain3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I prayed for rain yesterday.
Rain to rinse the sprawling greens that lay across my home,
To wash the coats of the goats that graze there, so peacefully,
To clean the mildew from that rotting hut where the old man lives.
To cleanse my lips, for they are dirty with half-hearted lies.
I prayed for a warm, soft rain.
For a cold rain would make the grasses shiver and shrivel, and
the goats to mewl uncomfortably as they retreated into the darkness.
The old man would simply turn and hide in his aging hut of cold, cold stones.
And my lips? They would harden with the lies I coat them with.
I want a shower to dance in.
So the grasses could tickle my feet as I twirled into the light, and
the goats would shyly come forward to watch, to listen to my rhythm
The old, old man might peek between the cracks in the stones,
And laughter would crack at the lies on my lips.
Give me a rain, dear Lord,
for the Sun is burning at the grasses, killing them slowly,
MasumiyetMasumiyet7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tarihte Unutulmaz Kadınlar
Bu resim tamamlandığında öldürüldü
Dünya hukuk tarihinin en önemli davalarından biri kabul edilir Beatrice Cenci'nin davası. Beatrice'in talihsiz yaşamının ve öldürülüşünün yaklaşık 4 asırdır konuşulmasını sağlayan ise öldürülmeden 24 saat önce yapılan tablosudur.
Beatrice Cenci, Roma'nın en zengin ailesinin kızıydı. Babası Francesco Cenci iğrenç bir adamdı. Sayısız rezaletlerini, öz kızına tecavüze yeltenmeye kadar götürdü. Beatrice'in iki erkek kardeşi ve üvey annesi, Francesco Cenci'yi ortadan kaldırmayı planladı. Francesco, 9 Eylül 1598'de Napoli'de bir dağ başında ölü bulundu. İhtiyar adamı kimin öldürdüğü bili
Vampire!Austria x reader - My choice (request)I've always been alone. Since the day I became a vampire, creature who cannot have any feelings. We can be strong, beautiful and deathless, but we have to hurt other for their blood. People are afraid of us. That's understandable. Most of us enjoy killing just for fun, no matter who that human is. Well... I prefer my piano, I can play all night long. It calms me down and I feel less alone. I love classical music, but this feeling is nothing with love I feel to that person, the human.Vampire!Austria x reader - My choice (request)3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I don't know how long it takes. I saw her for the first time in theatre. She was in empty auditorium, playing Chopin's Prelude No 4. She was smiling. I just stood there, listening and watching the girl. When she finished, her smile suddenly disappeared for few seconds. She turned towards me and smiled.
"Did you enjoyed it, sir?" she asked
"Yes" I answered and went closer. She was beautiful, ( h/c ) hair, big ( e/c ) and soft, calm voice.
"I'm glad you liked it" the girl smiled at me once again. She's so pr
i am kore no longeryou want to open upi am kore no longer2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
my pretty little mouth
and tie up the string
of my red tongue
with your own
(you always said
i spoke too much)
but oh! here i am
with my scissors,
and i am all three fates
here to cut apart
our tongues, our lives
cut the shape of
we so desperately need
i will become
my own goddess
i will eschew your flowers
and forests for
a red, red hell
and into the cavern
of my throat i go,
dancing all alone
hello, void static childrenhello, void2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an abducted plane
layers of inter-
we are stomached
by our parallels,
musical knuckles with
i hate your love storiesand your tumblr aestheticsi hate your love stories3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
with your shit john green quotes
full of naivety and idealized concepts
of what romance is supposed to be.
i want to burn your paper towns
into a silver-spined grave looping
around the melted ink and torched page
and i want to shoot your gas balls
till they dive bomb the dust everyone
loves to proclaim as their aura.
and there is fault in our stars
'cause you believe you are one
and i'm sorry
but you're not even a setting sun;
forerunner of gatling gun stunners
you're more thief
(hiding) in the night (from life)
than ray of (shining) light (in the sky).
illusions of oasis making you look twice
when beauty becomes ugly--
beholding stare of immaturity;
eye maturing knowing nurturing hue
over letting nature torture you
is the best route for two.
Untitled VerseThere is not a placeUntitled Verse3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I would not show you
in all of my ordinary world...
Not one blade of grass,
not one solitary Starling,
not one fiery sunset
should be lost -
All of this
tied up to you somehow.
This was daytime
and I was alone.
Now, it is night.
There is not one bright star
or near winter constellation
I would not keep for you
or put it in your hands.
There is not one spot
in my shadowy corners
where you can not shine your light-
all there - my deepest thoughts,
my darkest designings,
my sweetest dreams - all there,
all tied up to you somehow.
In the light of day,
in university halls
and lofty institutions -
high minded men
write their books
or recite their poems,
educate us to think
and to show our brothers
that we are humans
of the finest sort.
There is not one
of their thoughts
I can show you -
not one of their philosophies
which may apply...
Hear them and wonder
Charity is good
for men's souls.
Faith can move
But love -
Love can spin
Everything is a little more beautifulEverything is a little more beautifulEverything is a little more beautiful2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the moments before a storm –
the trees are a little greener
and the grass stands a little taller.
Before the gods let go
and the rain pummels down,
we see the world prepare itself,
like a soldier before the war.
Then the thunder rumbles
down the road
and lightning strikes
here and there,
occasionally taking a victim.
Some people hide,
some chase the storm as it rages on,
and some just lie down,